


Bandaids

by pseudocitrus



Series: Bandaids [2]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: F/M, Minor Injuries, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you...” Sasaki trails off, embarrassed, and then starts again, more firmly. “Do you remember me?”</p>
<p>Her hands stiffen.</p>
<p>“What?” she says in a whisper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bandaids

**Author's Note:**

> \+ this fic takes place after TG:re chapter 10 and is gleaming with the tears i am still shedding for that chapter  
> \+ written via homebounds' prompt, thouuugh it doesn't quite match  
> \+ vaguely connected to my other fic, [Pet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2765756)

Sasaki goes back to the cafe, later, alone. For some reason his hand shakes a little on the doorknob, and grips weakly, and when he pushes, the door remains firmly closed.

Maybe he should come back later. He is halfway up the street when he swallows and turns back. This time he gives the door a good, hard, decisive _push_ , and it slams back with a rattle and the ring of a bell.

Too late he remembers the man who sat at their table and eyed him the last time he was here, but a quick glance around the cafe reveals that the man isn’t there.

The woman isn’t here either.

In fact, no one is here.

“Hello?” Sasaki calls. No one responds. He checks for a signboard with the hours and doesn’t find that either.

He should leave. But instead his feet carry him further inside, towards the empty tables. Towards the service counter and its empty pastry case. Towards the stacks of plates and mugs, and the espresso machine, the steel of which is cool and new and smooth against his palm. The bean grinder appears to be built right in, and the milk steamers have an ergonomic bend. It is, overall, way nicer and definitely more convenient-looking than before.

...before?

Too late, he realizes that he’s somehow made it behind the service counter. He glances back and forth in panic, then jumps as he hears a _thunk_ — a groan — and a series of heavy, stumbling steps.

“This is so _heavy_ ,” someone gasps, “will you _help_ ,” and Sasaki rushes forward just as the woman staggers into the room. She’s holding an enormous bag of coffee beans, and he grabs its bottom and supports it as she carries it to the counter. She dumps it there heavily, panting, and turns to him.

“Tha —“ she starts, and stops the moment that she realizes that the person she’s talking to is not the old man, but Sasaki.

She blinks. She’s so beautiful, as beautiful as the first time he saw her, and after some time he realizes that he’s just been staring at her, saying nothing.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, and backs away hastily. “I — I don’t know how I — sorry, I —“

He yells as the heel of his shoe catches on the rubber restaurant matting. His hand whips out to catch something to prevent himself from falling, and gets firm hold of the steamer, which turns on and blasts his hand. He cries out and falls flat on his back, hitting his skull on the floor.

His vision flashes white with pain. Once the world fades in again, he sees her kneeling over him. Her hair falls aside and he can see both eyes peering at him beneath furrowed brows.

“Sorry,” he repeats weakly.

“It’s alright,” she tells him softly. She grabs his uninjured hand and pulls him to his feet. Once he’s standing, shakily, she takes his other hand and examines the steam burns, which are turning slightly red.

“I’m alright,” he tells her. With his kakuhou, an injury that small will be healed by night, if not sooner, despite how much it stings.

But she is still holding his hand. She glances around the cafe, as if making sure of something — looking for the old man, maybe? Then she looks back at him.

“Follow me,” she says. She leads him, her hand soft and light on his, and though he suspects his skin is beginning to blister, he finds that her touch is very pleasant.

She brings Sasaki down a hallway and to some kind of break room which contains the usual: a refrigerator, a table, a couple stools. He hesitates — is it really alright to be alone in here with her? — but she gestures for him to sit down, and he does. She then rummages in a drawer and withdraws a first aid kit, which she sets on the table.

“Oh, you really don’t need to,” he tells her, scratching his head with his other hand. “It’s not really...I mean...I’ll be fine…”

“Please,” she says, “let me,” and the rest of his arguments die in his throat.

She holds out her palm and he hands his wounded hand to her, knuckles down. She gently applies cool paste to his fingers, one by one, and in the silence, the hum of the fridge, there is a certain mundane peace that he hasn’t experienced in all his time working and living as an investigator.

Everything just feels…normal. Right.

She finishes treating and wrapping up one finger in a neat bandage, and he flexes it appreciatively.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Don’t think anything of it.”

“No, really — thank you. You’re too kind. No one’s ever bandaged me up so nicely.”

“Mmm,” she says, and for some reason her mouth curves into _that smile_ again — the one that he saw the other day, the one that stabs his heart both with its beauty and sadness. Sasaki swallows.

“Do you...” he trails off, embarrassed, and then starts again, more firmly. “Do you remember me?”

Her hands stiffen.

“What?” she says in a whisper.

“The other day,” he explains quickly. “In the cafe. I was with some other people, so I’m not surprised if you don’t…I was just thinking, maybe…”

She shakes her head. “Right,” she says quietly. “Right. Of course. I remember you.”

His heart skips. “Really?”

For the first time, she lifts her head and meets his gaze.

“Yes,” she says. “Do you remember me?”

Now her eyes crinkle a bit, with a sort of playfulness, and he smiles back. It doesn’t seem like the right time to say _You’re so beautiful, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve met._ But he does say, “How could I forget?”

Her mouth tightens in a crude approximation of a smile. “I don’t know.”

Sasaki wouldn’t call himself the best flirter but the fact that she almost seems sadder and sadder every time he says something is...well. More than a little disheartening.

Especially since he feels so drawn to her. To the coffee smell that surrounds her. To the hair falling across her face. To her hands on his.

“All done,” she says, and he holds up his hand and its neatly placed bandaids and —

And abruptly his heart and his vision clench, dim, deafen. It’s not his hand, it _is_ his hand, the nails flicker black, and they smell of fresh grounds and strangely-colored sugar, and he’s made some sort of mistake, and someone is sighing and taking him by the hand and she’s exasperated but he knows it’s fine, she always always forgives him and —

“…ello…? Sir?”

He realizes she’s calling him and he jerks out of his thoughts with a sharp suck of air. She’s looking at him, straight in the eye, with concern, with a wrinkled brow. Her lips are slightly open, and look incredibly soft.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Y-yes,” Sasaki answers, horrified to find his throat choking up. A tear sneaks down from his left eye and he rubs it away hastily, only to find it immediately replaced by another one. He laughs loudly.

“Hahaha, sorry about that, I...ha. Um. Do you have a handkerchief that I — or maybe a tissue that I could, um —“

“I’ll look,” she says, and searches the room and her pockets, turning up nothing. She glances back at him.

“It’s fine,” he tells her, “I’m fine, I just...p-please don’t worry about it anymore.”

But his eyes are still stinging, and she walks back toward him. Leans over him, close.

“Just a little — haha, um — tear in my composure,” Sasaki tries weakly, scratching his chin. “I’m fine.”

And now, for some reason, her gaze flares.

“You’re not,” she says in a low voice.

“I-I’m not?”

“You’re not fine,” she says, and her hands raise, and his chest tightens, _she’s going to punch him,_ he _knows_ it, he flinches and her fingers fist up, and she leans and presses her mouth to his cheek. She kisses the teardrop there, and then moves to his left eye and sets her lips against the tear there too.

It hurts, feeling like his heart has stopped. His mouth works, coughs out out a _“T —”_ noise that cracks and falls silent. Another startled tear rolls out, and she catches this one too, with a nudge of the tip of her tongue.

There’s no CCG around, this time, to stop him from…ill-advised behavior. She hovers over him, close, enthralling, and he feels light-headed. Before he knows it his hands are on her body, lightly at first, then firm, moving up and down, feeling out the curve of her waist and hips. Her head drops and they exchange slow breaths, once, twice. Then he leans against her, presses his face against her neck, and is rewarded with her sigh, and a swath of goosebumps that taste delicious.

His head races. His heart races.

This is so impossible.

This is so, so right.

His hands smooth down her back and with ridiculous boldness he grips her ass, yanks her closer against him. Her beautiful face flushes and her throat bobs beneath his lips with a gasp. Her fingers dig into his hair, tangling the black-and-white strands. Her legs fall easy to either side of him, and as Sasaki clutches her closer, she bends one leg tightly around his back.

He kisses up her neck, finding her chin and cheek and finally her waiting mouth, which he meets, tentatively. They kiss for a heartbeat, and then part, looking at each other with what Sasaki can only hope is identical astonishment.

This is so impossibly right. He dives against her again, kisses her until all his breath is expended, and with every flick of his tongue against hers he feels even less like there’s any possibility of having his fill of her.

And if she was beautiful before, it’s nothing compared to how she is now, with the sorrow in her eyes replaced with hazy but unmistakable desire. He moves his arm, hooking her other leg, and stands, relishing how she clutches him as he carries her to the table and lays her, back down, onto it. He grips her hands and kisses her, kisses her.

His body feels exquisite against hers and it’s almost painful to sit up when he feels her hands pushing him up and off.

“What’s wrong,” Sasaki mumbles, but she’s only making space to undo the buttons of her shirt. Soon his fingers fumble at it too, following hers as they travel down her top and then to her pants, which she kicks off messily onto the floor.

Then she’s sitting up and both of them are on his clothing now, unwinding his tie with a slither and casting it aside, ripping him out of his dress shirt, peeling back the button and the zipper of his jeans just enough so she can sneak her hand beneath the hem.

He groans as she touches him, runs her palm briskly up and down against his hardening cock. He should be surprised by how dauntless she is, probably, how not-shy this side of her is after his first sight of her reserved smile — but the truth is that she handles him so confidently that it’s hard to imagine her doing, or being, anything else.

He wants to more of her, more, more, her body and her voice and her compelling gazes. She’s still wearing underwear, and he curves his hand over it, stroking his palm forward and back over her crotch. She rests her forehead against him and he feels her breath get ragged against his collarbone, feels her grip on him loosen. Her hips sway against him, slightly, encouraging, and soon she’s so soaked the bunny-patterned fabric that his hands are coming away damp.

_“More,”_ he hears her groan into his chest, and Sasaki hooks his thumbs on the band of her underwear. She leans back, and he tugs her underwear off her raised ankles, then presses his palm against her again, this time with two fingers poised. He slips them inside of her, marveling at how warm and wet and supple she is, and her moan makes his cock strain painfully against his clothes.

And she must know that, somehow, she must be able to tell, because she reaches forward and shoves his pants and underwear down just far enough to free his erection, and circle her fingers around it. As he moves his fingers inside her, her hand moves down; as he withdraws, she moves up, with a twist of her wrist.

He pumps in and out of her a few more times, his fingers curling against her walls, his thumb swirling around her clit. His hand is getting increasingly slick, and his brain increasingly maddened by her mirroring administrations, by the spasms of the velvet muscles inside her.

Finally Sasaki stops, panting, and she stops too. He rests a bit, breathing hard, trying to maintain himself but unable to control his body’s shuddering. He catches her hooded gaze, and that’s all the communication needed between them; she lies back on the table again, raising her legs, and he catches her knees in the bend of his elbows and tugs her body toward him.

Her hands reach down and pull down his cock, positioning the tip of it against her slit. He sinks in, filling her up with aching slowness, watching her knuckles whiten as he pushes further and further. She is so wet, her sex is practically throbbing around him, she moans and her back arches and that’s about all that he can take, he never knew that he could want someone this much, never knew that it was possible to want someone to come on him this badly. He pumps in and out of her, coordinating the push of his hips with the pull of his arms to penetrate her as deep as possible, and her voice turns into a fantastic, indulgent whine paced to the rattle of the table beneath her.

He feels her legs tighten abruptly, and he knows; he slows his last stroke, and then shoves, fast, and she comes. Her fingers and toes curl and the ecstasy in her voice as she cries out one last time is all he needs to reach his own climax. The vision of her is lost in a flash of black, and then white.

The world returns in blurs, uncurling its details like a slow-blooming flower. Consciousness reaches his fingers one by one, and then his hands, and his arms, and all at once he realizes how exhausted he is. Sasaki releases her legs as carefully as possible, letting them swing off the edge of the table. After that, it’s all he can do to extricate himself and then maneuver carefully enough so that when his legs give out, he’s at least positioned to drop onto a stool.

She’s staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on her bare belly. He watches her, feeling dazed, and strangely contented. This time when her eyes tip toward him, he doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he chuckles.

“I’m glad I came,” he says, mischievously. “Back, I mean.”

She snorts. She opens her mouth to say something — then closes it again. Clears her throat.

“I’m glad you came back too,” she tells him. There’s a sobriety to her words that he doesn’t quite get. Maybe she’s just the serious type.

Well, he can be serious too.

“The coffee here is the best I’ve had,” he tells her. “But to be honest, I returned for you.”

She sits up on her elbows. Smiles. “Is that so.”

“Yeah. When I saw you…I just…you’re just…” He rubs his head, laughs apprehensively. This whole thing is unbelievable. And the strangest thing of all is that —

“I don’t even know your name.”

He meant it as playfully as possible, but she looks away, sharply, like he’s slapped her. He straightens immediately.

“Sorry,” Sasaki says. Oh no, she’s sitting up now, she’s buttoning up her shirt. “Sorry, I didn’t — I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Please don’t leave — please. Listen. M-maybe I should start over. My name is —”

She turns abruptly and places a finger on his mouth, silencing his voice, his heart.

“Don’t worry about it,” she tells him. “Just…come back again sometime. Alright?”

He nods. Takes her hand from his mouth and holds it firmly.

“I will,” he says. “I promise.”


End file.
